


Some Things Never Change (Sometimes They Do)

by Whatsastory



Series: Ian and Mickey Do the ‘Dad,’ Thing [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Kid Fic, M/M, domestic bliss (Kinda)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: “Yeah, well maybe I don’t want her first fucking word to be fuck. Or shit. Or cunt or some other filthy fuckin’ language that spews outta your face, Mick,” Ian shoots back.“Yeah, cause you’re a real saint, huh?”Or the one where Ian and Mickey bring home a baby girl.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Ian and Mickey Do the ‘Dad,’ Thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594849
Comments: 9
Kudos: 233





	Some Things Never Change (Sometimes They Do)

She’s gorgeous, if you ask Ian. Pretty blue eyes like her dad- dark and deep like the ocean (or what he assumes the ocean might look like) when she’s pissed or sad. Bright blue like a crisp fall day when she’s happy or otherwise pleased with herself (at least as much as a newborn can be pleased with one’s self.) 

She’s fucking cute as shit if you ask Mickey. Genetically, she may be his. But in the whole nature versus nurture bullshit, she’s definitely got Ian’s personality. His expressions, too. Like, okay, say she’s hungry, right? She might scrunch up her face and look at you like you’re the dumbest motherfucker on the planet for not figuring it out sooner. Or, maybe she’s fuckin’ wet, as babies tend to be, she might scream a high pitched cry that could wake the fucking dead, and when she does, with wide eyes and dimpled little cheeks. That looks like Ian. Doesn’t take fucking sperm to be someone’s dad. And Ian is definitely her dad. 

All thing’s considered, they’re pretty lucky to have met Svetlana. Offered them a steep discount when they decided to try for a surrogate on a count of their almost marriage after a pregnancy scare a few years back. They didn’t have a baby together then, but he was pretty fucking thankful that technically they had one together now. Especially since she left them to their own devices. Signed over her rights right the fuck away, which, good thing with the pretty penny they’d paid her. Doesn’t matter now, though, cause they’d hired a lawyer- like good, law abiding citizen fucks- and now both he and Ian are on her birth certificate. No one else. Just them. And so far, two weeks in, maybe Mickey feels happy for the first time in a long fucking time. Maybe ever. 

The no sleeping thing is a little rough, Ian will admit. Especially for someone that has to keep a fairly regimented schedule so that his meds stay tip top. Thankfully he’s gotten used to foregoing his sleep due to long shifts on the rig. Twenty four hour shifts are only good for getting you to forget the fuck about sleep. 

It’s a good fucking thing now, because at 2:54 on the dot, he hears that high pitched wail from the other room, followed closely by the overly tired groan of his husband waking up for the umpteenth time tonight. 

“I’ll go,” Ian grumbles and makes a grab for the edge of the blanket. 

“Stay there, sleepy face,” Mickey tells him instead, up on his feet before Ian can even insist that he stay in bed. 

Things like being called, “sleepy face,” was not something Ian expected of Mickey before their baby girl came home. Neither was hearing soft singing from the next room over, but here he is, listening to it, even if it’s... a little less than a nursery rhyme and more of a ghetto off the cuff sort of deal. 

“You fuckin’ stink,” Micky hums and Ian smiles into the warmth of the sheet. “And you prob’ly need some grub. So daddy’s gonna get that fuckin’ bottle, and you’re gonna fuckin’ take it to the face.” 

Ian laughs loudly and from his belly. It’s probably the worst ‘song,’ he’s ever heard, but when silence follows the sound of his voice at least he knows it’s worked. 

“Somethin’ you wanna say?” He asks, trudging back into their room with a baby in one hand and a bottle in the other. 

“How many ounces you give her? She’s only supposed to take two right now, you know.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and holds up the little pink bottle, swishing it from side to side so that Ian’s knows he’s fucking got it already, damn, and gestures for Ian to get the fuck back on track. 

“Maybe don’t sing the word, ‘fuck,’ so many times to our baby?” Ian suggests, but his laughter kicks back up, and damn, if he’s lost all of his authority. 

“Pretty sure you like when I say fuck. Specially when I’m talking about fucking y-”

“Mickey!” Ian chastises, and earns himself a shit eating grin in return. 

“Calm down, sugar tits. She don’t know shit from shit right now, do you, Mina?” 

They’d thought it was a fair trade for Svet, a Russian name for the baby she gave up for them. And with the plus that it sorta-kinda sounded like their two names together, it just clicked for them. And so, Mina Milkovich Gallagher was born. 

When only the quiet sound of a suckling bottle answers, Micky looks back at him smug, one eyebrow raised in triumph. 

“Yeah, well maybe I don’t want her first fucking word to be fuck. Or shit. Or cunt or some other filthy fuckin’ language that spews outta your face, Mick,” Ian shoots back. 

“Yeah, cause you’re a real saint, huh?” 

Ian can’t say shit, not really, so instead of this play fight, he chooses to lay back on his pillows and smile. Just a real, genuine smile. Because after all the shit they went through to get here, at this moment, it’s all worth it. Every last bit of pain culminated in the best outcome. And it’s sort of fucking perfect. 

And when Mina finishes her bottle and Mickey flips her on her tummy against his chest and pats her back (praising her for her absolute solid burp) Ian only grins wider. 

“Never woulda pegged Mickey Milkovich as world’s number one dad fifteen years ago,” he muses. 

“Yeah, well, fifteen years ago I probably would’a spit in your face if you’d suggested having a kid,” Mickey shrugs, shy like he doesn’t really believe it. 

“I mean it, Mick,” Ian says, all traces of humor evaporated. “You’re a good dad. She loves you, even if she doesn’t know what that means, yet.” 

He still looks like he doubts it, like someone who grew up with fucking Terry could never be anything but the shittiest of shitty dads, his baby curls her little face into his shoulder and falls back asleep. Like she knows she’s safe and warm and so fucking loved. 

Ian just points to her, eyebrows high on his forehead, raised like he’s daring Mickey to protest. And fuck, maybe she does love him. Maybe Ian does, too. And maybe, just maybe, he deserves to feel it.

**Author's Note:**

> Might fuck around and keep this going.


End file.
